The Automatik

Shim Sham Club
June 6, 2001

You must understand that I’ve been a tremendous fan of Jim (Foetus) Thirlwell since I was 14. After the first time I heard “Throne of Agony” on our local college radio station, I became a devotée. Although I was never able to see him live, I couldn’t forget the man and his sonic sinfulness. When the Gash tour stopped here in 1995, I knew I would not miss it. I stood there in front of the stage, quaking with anticipation, my knees actually shaking until the man himself swaggered out, through a cloud of smoke, wearing a white tuxedo and living up to all my teen fantasies.

After the show, grinning and giggling like I was still 14, I approached the now shirtless Jim to say something silly about being a fan since back in the day. He guzzled from his bottle of Jack Daniels and eyed me with contempt. He spat out some unimpressed response and I walked away, feeling like I got what I asked for, expecting nothing less than prickly-ness from the man who’d spent years penning songs of insanity, despair, and masculine bravado, growling out lines like “A woman’s place is on my face.”

Five long years we Foetus fans waited for a new album. Flow is a masterpiece, but I won’t go into all that here. The fact that he was going to be playing here on June 6 sent me into a tizzy. As the days approached, my excitement skyrocketed. I knew I would be a nervous wreck the night of the show, so I was prepared to down some liquid courage once I arrived at the Shim Sham.

A friend accompanied me, one who knew little of Jim’s work except for “English Faggot” and “Bedrock” (which I’d forced her to listen to). I don’t think she knew quite what to expect, and to tell the truth, neither did I. I knew Jim wouldn’t be the sloshy mess he’d been last time, since he’d given up the sauce, among other things, but I couldn’t remember much about that last time really, so dazed was I from the whole experience.

The gold lamé curtains opened and there he was. I noted with much amusement that he was wearing an outfit he could have nicked from my own closet: a garishly printed polyester shirt and flared jeans. Mr. Thirlwell’s trademark flaming red hair and sideburns were present, but he was wearing some huge tinted shades which obscured those crazy eyes of his.

Apparently just saying no has worked out well for the man, as he was looking rail-thin, energetic, and dead sexy. I’d managed to make my way front and center, but of course, the backwards baseball cap-wearing dude in front of me devil-signed and fist-pumped his way through the first few tunes, screaming out the lyrics to Jim like he was his own personal teleprompter.

I didn’t care about those proles, I was in heaven. Transfixed, I stood and stared, smiling at Jim until I thought my jaw would split open, unable to keep my eyes off him and in complete awe of his presence. By the third tune, the sunglasses were off…and so were the gloves. Assaulting us with his caged-animal magnetism, Jim paced the stage, staring and grimacing in his inimitable way, groaning and screaming the lyrics like a madman. Which of course, he is.

The new songs sounded wonderful, the old songs sounded fabulous. It was miraculous. Jim crawled up on the amp to stare and point at various audience members, crooning to them. He held my gaze for a good long while during “Friend or Foe” and you can bet THAT image will be burned on my eyeballs for the rest of time. As will the one of him straddling the mike stand and rubbing his hands up and down his thighs and then grasping his crotch. So starry-eyed was I that I barely noticed the grinding, snake-charming, and hippie-dancing fools surrounding me, but my friend filled me in later.

After the show, I didn’t want to leave, I just wanted to grok in fullness. I stood around with friends chatting, but mostly giggling and staring at Jim, who was standing a few feet away, talking to fans. He kept staring right back at me, which of course, made my giggling and staring all the worse. Later, when he caught my eye again, it was inevitable. He had to stop and say, “Hi” (he seemed almost SHY) and tell me how he’d noticed me watching him from the stage. Yeah, like he could have missed my worshipful expression. Even the band members were smiling and shaking their heads at me as they passed.

So charming, so lovely he was. Smiling and shaking my hand for what seemed like forever. Neither of us seemed willing to let go, as I looked into those gorgeous blue eyes, beaming and beaming. Those eyes, those eyes. I couldn’t stop staring at them and he held my gaze without faltering. His accent is divine, some weird mish-mash of Aussie, Brit, and Noo Yawk. I can’t even remember all the things that were said, but I will say that I was stunned at how obviously I was flirting and how much it seemed to delight him. There was so much more I wanted to say, like, that he was the most incredible talent I’d ever witnessed, that I wanted to anoint his feet with oils and dry them with my hair, but it was not to be.

He excused himself to go return some keys, and then went and joined some friends. Later, I snuck a peek and saw him just standing there with his soda can in his hand, looking distracted. Casting one last glance my way, he caught me watching yet again. I grinned at him one final time. Then, he was gone.

And for anyone who thinks I’m a stupid groupie, you can just kiss my white, booty-dancing ass. Cos all the furtive stares and smiling and that exquisite conversation with him meant more to me than any roll in the hay ever could.